


Johnlock Ficlet Collection

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Angst, Arguing, BDSM, Bakery AU, Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, First Kiss, Fluff, John/Sherlock - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, NSFW, Panties Kink, Sickness, Smut, TGG, Uni!lock, ballet!lock, bottomlock, dom!lock, gladstone - Freeform, laundry room au, rugby!john, toplock, trigger warning: rape, victorian!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:37:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2235975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various Johnlock ficlets I've written. [To be added to]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Panties Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pink satin panties and a fantastic blowjob. Prompted via tumblr.

"J-John..."

"No, Sherlock, you look good. I promise."

"I look like a woman."

"So?"

"I feel emasculated."

"Shut up. We're trying something new. Just come over here."

John Watson had persuaded his partner to wear a pair of pink satin panties, complete with white lace trim, and nothing else. Sherlock was adamant at first, but at the lecherous gleam in John's eye, he decided to try it. His pale body was chiseled and tense and strong, completely juxtaposing the useless bit of fabric that dug into the sharp bone of his hip. At the command, however, he kneeled before John and looked up. John's mouth was slightly askew in a salacious grin.

"Good," he said. Sherlock's lime eyes dropped to the bulge in John's trousers. With a squeak of asking for consent, met with a hum, Sherlock's pale fingers worked at the clasp of John's belt. "On all fours, so I can see the lingerie." John commanded.

"Don't be ridic - "

"None of this for you, then." The war doctor shifted his hips away from Sherlock's eager gaze, but the pouty lipped detective obeyed and settled into a position in which John could see the expanse of his back and the flare of his rear from his tailbone, which was now adorned with shimmering cotton candy pink fabric.

Sherlock continued on in the usual way, pressing his nose to the tip of John's cock while it was still clothed and drawing it into his mouth slowly. 

Once he pulled John from his pants, the smooth foreskin slid easily through his palm. Sherlock's cupid's bow mouth wrapped around John's length and he sucked his cheeks in, his sharp cheekbones more prominent as he did so. His eyes flicked up at John, their intense color as intimidating as it was lovely. 

"Sherlock..." John was caught in the sight of Sherlock sucking him off, while his girlishly clad rear tempted his as it shimmied from side to side playfully. 

John clenched his fists as he approached climax, but Sherlock knew him well enough to pull off and decrease his pressure as a form of pleasurable torture. 

"Not yet," Sherlock mumbled around John's cock. He brought John close nearly four times before John wove his tremulous fingers into Sherlock's dark curls and guided him down. 

Sherlock reveled in the feel and solidity of John filling his mouth, and as his head was pushed farther down into the patch of sparse blond hair at the hem of John's crumpled green shirt, he clumsily palmed himself over the satin panties. The material slid over his own skin smoothly, and it strained with his erection, a damp spot darkening the light pink into a less-than-innocent maroon. 

Once John came, his fists pulling mass amounts of curls, Sherlock followed suit. John's evidence slipped from the numb corners of Sherlock's pretty pink mouth, and Sherlock pulled off, swallowing the remains. 

"John."

"Hm?"

"I've stained them."

John grinned, "Perfect."

 


	2. BDSM Toplock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very specific dom!lock prompt from my good friend via Skype.

Sherlock rolled his neck and stretched his arms as he made his way through the doorway. He was wasting time mindlessly preening himself as a form of smug torture, knowing that John would be mercilessly at his advantage once he returned to the bedroom. 

Of course, as he entered almost ten minutes after initially tying and leaving John to writhe in his binds, John was angry at him and shouted towards the wall.

"You prick, that was not three minutes."It was huffed and gasped, and John was straining between words from the vibrator inside him and taped to his leg.

"Did I say three? Hm. Miscalculation on my part. How are you holding up?"

John bowed his head and let out a rather stubborn moan. "Ridiculous," he interrupted himself with a gasp, "Absolutely ridiculous."

Sherlock liked that he was fully clothed and warm while John was exposed and bound, his skin goosepimpling with the breeze from the open window. He also was at the disadvantage of having to restrain from finishing by the vibrator alone. The detective just crossed his arms, his own erection straining against his trousers.

John was still complaining when Sherlock tuned back in. He was breathless and grumpy, "And you had to bloody," he grit his teeth and turned his head toward the direction of Sherlock, "blindfold me."

Finally approaching the bed and crawling onto it, Sherlock smoothed his palms over John's arching and dipping back as he spoke. "You said you wanted to try new things. This was on my list."

"I would assume fucking me on every surface of the flat was enough." John was exceptionally talkative tonight, he must have been nervous or eager. Maybe both.

Sherlock placed light kisses all over John's shoulders and back, but he knew that he'd counter them with bruises and scratches soon enough. He leaned back on his knees and admired John. He was exposed in front of him, his arse wide and open with a blue vibrator, his hands tied at the wrists to the head of the bed, his face turned toward him, black ribbon around his eyes.

Ignoring his previous plea, Sherlock slid his hands up and under John's thighs and untaped the battery pack. He moved to slip the vibrator out and contained a laugh as he heard John's disappointed groan.

Without warning, Sherlock guided his mouth to John's opening and lapped at it with vigor, relentlessly slipping his tongue in and out. John tensed and bowed his head, his shoulders dipping as much as they could with the restraint at his wrists.

Sherlock didn't let up for minutes, bringing John closer to release and pulling back just as he felt him tense and careen closer to the edge. John was pleading and moaning for Sherlock to stop teasing him through gasps, but Sherlock just sat up and nestled between his cheeks and told him that he had to hold out.

John had no choice, he couldn't satiate himself because his hands were tied and he had to comply if he ever had a chance of coming. He just whimpered and turned his blind eye toward the sound of Sherlock wiping his mouth. He was impatient and spent, but what could he do?

Sherlock took his sign of consent and obedience and finally released himself from his binds in his trousers and gave himself a few lazy strokes as he spoke to John.

"John, hold on a little longer."

"Shut up and fuck me."

Sherlock laughed, "You're too eager. Settle down."

Pushing himself forward and sheathing himself into John without hesitation, Sherlock immediately pounded into him, giving him no time to voice his happiness.

Leaning forward while thrusting, Sherlock cooed in John's ear, "Beg for me."

John obeyed. "Fuck, Sherlock, please, please, please, please fuck me."

"Impossible, I already am."

"More, more, harder," John's words were barely audible now, they were just the beginnings of words and breaths.

Sherlock pushed himself up and away from John's face and watched as he ground his hips backwards into him, needy for more release. He released John's hips only to bring his left hand away from John's body and slap him, right on the cheek, with a flat open palm.

John bucked forward and yelped, but he grit his teeth and pleaded for more. Sherlock, now falling under John's tempting begging, obliged and continued to smack him until there was a red mark on both of John's cheeks and his own hands were sore.

Surprised at how long they'd both lasted with the circumstances, Sherlock gripped the muscle of John's rear and leaned forward again. "Are you holding out for me?"

"Yes."

Snaking his free hand under John's torso and moving up his chest, Sherlock pressed his thumb onto John's nipple and pinched it. John bowed his head in a gasp, but Sherlock was relentlessly, pulling them tight and moving his other hand to work on the other one.

"You can come now," he said, his voice deep and grumbling as he rolled John's hard nipples under his fingers and bucked forward and into him deeply.

John came undone, swearing, begging, moaning, coiling, tugging at his wrist binds, clenching his arse and coming as Sherlock continued to thrust into him. 

Sherlock raked his fingernails down John's side as he pushed deeper in and released himself. When he finally paused and locked in place, riding the last waves of his orgasm, he'd gripped John's hips so firmly he was sure it'd leave a bruise.

Using his remaining strength, Sherlock untied John and they collapsed onto the bed, rolling away from the damp spot. 

They were spent, sore, and happy, and they wouldn't have it any other way.

 


	3. Original Concept for Swim AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first attempt at one of my other friend's prompts - it's being turned into a full-length fic! Prompted via Skype.
> 
> Actual fic [here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2412308/chapters/5335916)

"Alright," Mrs. Pensy said. "We've two weeks until regionals, and although you've all done quite well through the semi-regionals, now is when we need to focus." She paced over the cement, her broad shoulders blocking but the sun as she directed her attention to the twelve boys sitting cross-legged on the waiting mats.

"Remember," she continued, "No heavy foods, no drugs, plenty of sleep, and plenty of water. I hope to see all of you trying harder to beat your record times these next few weeks. Heat 1, you're up." She set her hands on her navy suit as the young men scrambled to get up. She cut them off with a hand, "No, wait. I know that Jerry's broken arm is horrible timing for all of us, but I've found a replacement. He should be here…"

She looked around expectantly and Sherlock found himself heating at the thought of a new boy. All of the 20-something men on his team were rude outside of pooltime and the pale swimmer didn't exactly think he had a chance with any of them. 

"Alright, well, no matter, he'll be here soon enough. Heat 1, into the water - Sherlock, Alex, Martin, Arthur, Samuel, and Nick."

Stretching out his lean body, Sherlock rolled his joints and stepped up to the edge of the pool. His teammates joined him, but his eyes were directed at the water. 

He loved the cerulean calmness about it when it was untouched, but the bubbles and rush in his ear when he swam made him happiest. He snapped his goggles and took his mark. He needed to beat his time - not that he was the slowest on the team.

Mrs. Pensy blew her whistle and Sherlock dove into the water, immediately relaxing against it. He pulled through with lean strokes, his shoulders tugging against the current. He watched as his diamond shaped palms cut pathways through the water and brought him closer to the white and black tile at the other end of the pool.

Coming up for air between strokes, Sherlock pushed himself to swim faster, kick harder. When the tip of his fingers bumped the cement, he curled into the water and  spun around, pushing off with his feet and sending him right back the other way.

Swimming a few more laps and pushing himself harder with each, Sherlock eventually completed his run and came to a resting point. He stood from the water and clambered out, snapping his goggles off and fluffing his damp curls out. 

Mrs. Pensy spoke to him as he looked on, the other boys raising themselves onto the cement one by one. Sherlock must have been first. "Nice one, Holmes, you shed four seconds off the time you had at semi-regionals. Take a breather."

Sherlock nodded, out of breath and sore. He smoothed his swimming trunks down in the front and wiped the excess water from his bum. As he reached for his soft, white towel hanging on the steel gate, a figure rounded the corner in a run.

"I'm here! I'm here!" it said.

Feeling proud and playful, Sherlock called after the young man. "No running!"

He turned his head towards the voice and God, was he beautiful. Before Sherlock could blink, Mrs. Pensy had stopped him with a hand and snapped his attention her stern gaze. Sherlock's teammates joined him in the shade and whispered about the new guy. Sherlock disregarded them and noted how their instructor spoke to him. 

"Watson, John - I would think you'd know better than to run around a pool."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I just wanted to get here."

"Yes, well, now you're here. Boys!" She turned her attention to the team. And pushed John forward. "This is John Watson. He's replacing Jerry. I hear he has speed and form, but we'll train him enough in time for the competition. Play nice." Before letting John join the team, she leaned in and said, "Take a moment to introduce yourself then get ready for the second heat."

He nodded curtly and brought himself over to Sherlock, who seemed to be the only one wanting to talk to him. The other men missed Jerry and turned their backs to him. 

John dropped his green backpack on the bench and smiled at Sherlock. He was brilliant and bloody gorgeous. He had light, sun-bleached hair and tan skin. His navy eyes were curious and his smile made Sherlock disregard any other attractive man's he'd fancied in the past lifetime. John began unzipping his blue jacket as removing his sandals as Sherlock spoke.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"John Watson." They exchanged a clumsy handshake and John smiled at him again. He was wearing a white tank top, but Sherlock knew that it was soon to come off. He was right - the man pulled it over his head and exposed his strong chest and chiseled body, which was more solid and tan than Sherlock's own. He let himself stare as John's view was hidden by his shirt, but he darted his eyes away when those intense blue eyes came back to light.

"So, you're the new guy? Where did you swim before here?"

John rolled his neck and stretched. He looked around at the other teammates, who were whispering and scoping him out. He was wearing bright red swimming trunks, while everyone else wore the team's navy with white stripes. He was like a fish out of water, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to talk to him and touch him. 

When John dropped his gaze to chuckle, Sherlock felt himself heat at the sound of it. It was so innocent and beautiful coming out of such a seductive man. "Just at college. I wanted to try out for this team last year, but I missed the deadline."

"Where did you go?" Sherlock wanted to know everything.

"Roundview. Why, you go to Clemens?" John rubbed his arms as if they were sore.

"Yeah, most of us do." 

"Hm. You look familiar." But his flirtatious grin was cut short when Mrs. Pensy called him over with the second heat. Sherlock swore he winked after he grabbed his goggles and moved to Jerry's spot on the edge of the pool.

Sherlock was still stunned at the encounter when he heard the whistle. He watched as John dove into the water, shadows from his shoulder muscles flickering with the movement. He mindlessly rubbed a towel through his curls and turned to watch John swim.

He was so graceful, so strong. He pulled himself through the water with ease, and Sherlock knew that with shoulders like that, John could. 

After a few more mesmerizing laps, John popped up and climbed out of the pool, placing second in his heat. Their instructor turned an impressed eye at him and disregarded him with a flick of her wrist, leaving him to approach Sherlock.

John was magnificent, even more so now that he was wet. Rivulets of water streamed down his arms and collected in pools the dips and valleys of his collarbone. Sherlock had no shame now, and he let himself gaze upon John and his shaggy blond head and chiseled body. He dropped his eyes lower, noticing the bulge in his swimming trunks, and how their damp red material clung to every curve of his rather large package. He heated, his stomach pooling and coiling with his arousal.

He swallowed with a dry throat, his lips oddly heavy. He squeezed his firm thighs together in noting that his erection was growing as John was approaching, and he was sure he wasn't the only one to have noticed.

"How was that?" John said, pulling his lips into a smug smile. Sherlock wanted them on his body this instant, but instead he just shrugged playfully.

"Alright… for a newbie."

"I'm no newbie, just to this place." John reached by Sherlock and retrieved a clean towel. Sherlock hoped he didn't make it obvious that he would like to taste the droplets on the new boy's skin. 

But John was looking at him curiously and licked his lips when Sherlock didn't respond, and that gave Sherlock a very far-reached idea. "Mrs. Pensy," he called. "Do you think

John should get to know the practice area a little better?"

"What is there to get to know? It's a bloody pool."

"The showers and lockers, I mean." He looked at the instructor with pleading eyes, hoping for some shred of humanity to arise.

She looked between John and Sherlock dubiously, but she couldn't afford to dawdle and cast off Sherlock. "Fine, a quick tour. John,  my best swimmer will show you around."

Turning her back, Sherlock swore he heard her mutter, "Don't know why you couldn't have waited 'til after practice…"

But John was already eager and following Sherlock through the gate, around the corner, and into the dressing room and shower area. As they walked in silence, Sherlock felt eyes on the back on his neck and noticed in a passing reflection that those same eyes had dropped to his rear and were noting how Sherlock's damp trunks clung to the curve of his rear.

Pushing through a set of blue double doors, Sherlock led John into the area. He let John look around quickly before testing the waters, as it were. "The palace," he said.

"I can get used to this."

"Hm. So…"

John turned an eye to Sherlock and smirked. He seemed to know what Sherlock was doing, and while it was definitely a leap, Sherlock was cute when he stuttered. "Yes?"

"Fancy any blokes on the team so far?" Sherlock bit his lip. If John called him a twink and left, then good riddance. If for some reason, however, he responded well, then

Sherlock would have a chance.

"Not particularly. That one with red hair is rather fit, I guess." John turned to lean on the wall coolly, his trunks still clinging to his every curve.

Sherlock joined him on the wall. He was in. "Samuel? He's alright."

"Why do you ask?"

"It's just... inner-team dating is prohibited. So I was warning you."

Both of the men were flustered and nursing semis at this point, and Sherlock tried to contain himself as he felt John scoot closer toward him and watch his profile. 

"Thank you. But… Is it really so forbidden, even if Mrs. Pensy never finds out?"

Swallowing away his last shard of decency, Sherlock licked his lips and locked eyes with John. He let them drop to John's damp bulge before pulling them up and answering in a low, husky voice. "I guess not." 

John's eyes were half-lidded and he was watching Sherlock's lips. He hummed his agreement, their shoulders brushing.

"But," Sherlock continued, "There's really nobody on the team you think you might break the rule for?"

Completely lacking subtlety now, John kissed Sherlock's drying shoulder. "Maybe one."

"Hm. I think I have an exception, too. He's rather new though." Sherlock turned himself so his shoulder rested on the cool wall and leaned in to John's kiss.

His lips were soft, damp, and parted, and while it was lovely to kiss so sweetly and tenderly, the realness of the situation and the attractive swimmer just inches away from his fingers was too tempting not to indulge in, and Sherlock pulled back and gabbed John's wrist.

He pulled them into the nearest dressing room and hastily shut the door. Turning back to John, who was smirking knowingly, Sherlock pushed him up against the wall and kissed him mercilessly. John responded well, sliding his hands over Sherlock's skin and slipping over his damp rear. Sherlock moaned girlishly at the touch, but it'd been so long since he'd been touched, and he wouldn't have it any other way at the moment.

Sherlock pressed his knee into John's hardening bulge and kissed him ferociously, biting red marks on his neck and feeling every contraction in John's arms and hips as he explored him with his hands. John bucked down onto Sherlock's knee, but he shifted himself away and pulled Sherlock's hips on top of his roughly.

Meeting at their centers, John and Sherlock both gasped - their cocks rubbing together through the thin, damp material of their trunks. Sherlock ground into John and moved back to his mouth, licking into it and sucking on his tongue.  
If he were to be caught now by Mrs. Pensy and kicked off the team, it'd be worth it because John tasted so sweet and was so incredibly sexy.

John made a plaintive moan into Sherlock's mouth as he shivered and bucked into him. Sherlock swore that he could only take a minute or so more of the teasing until he pulled his trunks down and begged John to fuck him.

Luckily, John was already on top of it and untying Sherlock's trunks. Sherlock moved his hands out of John's hair to do the same, immediately pulling him out and reveling in the solid weight in his hand. 

Pressing themselves together, skin to skin now, John wrapped his hand around both of their cocks and squeezed them together. Sherlock's head went fuzzy and his cheeks prickled, but the coiling pleasure in his stomach couldn't be satisfied by petty touches, and he finally found his voice.

Tugging on John's earlobe with his teeth, he cooed, "Take me now, new guy."

John resounded justly, pushing Sherlock by the forearms and spinning him so he was pressed against the wall. He slipped Sherlock's swim trunks lower and exposed his pale, round rear. Massaging it for a moment, John released one hand and spit on his fingers.

Sherlock just tried to breathe calmly as he mentally added this to his list of sexual encounters. He pressed his forehead to the wall and gasped when he felt a slimy finger enter him. It twisted and churned, bending downwards to hit him just right. He sagged forward and moaned, hearing John swear behind him.

Another finger was added and Sherlock felt that if he survived this intense amount of pleasure, he'd never curse his fortune again. John plunged into him, rolling his arm and coming close to Sherlock to bite and kiss his shoulder.

When John felt he was properly prepared, and quite rightly so, he replaced his fingers with his thick cock and pressed on, filling Sherlock up as he sheathed him down to the base. 

John moved slowly at first, but Sherlock was impatient and made a noise to direct John to increase - he did so. He thrust into Sherlock and pulled at his damp curls, increasing his movements and pushing deeper into Sherlock, his hips pressing against the taught muscle of Sherlock's arse. 

The sound and smell of sex soon filled the dressing room, and Sherlock's moans and breaths were matched by the rough slapping of John's hand on his hips and bum. He was lost to the pounding pleasure deep in his stomach, and his hands clawed helplessly at the wall. 

John was lost to the feeling of Sherlock pulsing and contracting around him, but he wouldn't let go until he felt or heard Sherlock come first.

For the next few minutes, both young men held on as long as they could, but John's relentless movements and Sherlock's whorish moans made it difficult to sustain such horny action, and Sherlock tensed and moaned loudly as he came, John pushing deep inside Sherlock and finishing almost immediately after.

They were locked momentarily, frozen as the last of their orgasms rolled off their skin and broke the tension, causing them to sag forward and sigh. They were spent and satiated, and Sherlock couldn't help but laugh.

"What?" John said into his shoulder.

"Welcome to the team."


	4. Sherlock's Assasination During Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otherwise known as the angstiest thing of my life. A horrible headcanon I came up with during Skype, at which both my friend and I wrote ficlets for.

Grinding his hips into Sherlock's stomach, John closed his eyes and gave into the searing hot kisses the detective placed on his collarbone. The heat from both their naked bodies contrasted the drifting cool breeze from the open window. John tightened his calves around Sherlock's back, grateful that he'd taught his fiance how to top so well. 

Sherlock dragged his hands down John's neck and sides before finding his hands and squeezing. Craning his neck up to meet his lips, John whispered a breathless, "I love you" into them. Sherlock pulled back and looked down at John with shimmering jade eyes, his wild curls so alive and unmanageable from John's constant pulling. 

He parted his lips to say it back, but he shuddered and sagged forward suddenly, the full weight of his body falling down onto John's. Their foreheads clanged, and while John was sure it'd bruise in the morning, he laughed nervously. He twitched his arms to move his fingers out of Sherlock's and push him off, but a strange panic set in him when he realized his love's fingers were already loose around his. 

Realizing a moment too late that a sharp crack of a gun had sounded, John freed his hands from Sherlock's warm fingers and moved one to his heavy head.

His curls were damp with a hot liquid, and with his stomach still churning, Sherlock still deep inside him and heavy on top of him, John retracted his palm.

It was covered in crimson blood that glistened maroon in the dark. 

Screaming Sherlock's name helplessly, John used the last of his strength to shove Sherlock's lifeless body up and roll out from under it.

Landing onto the floor, John crumpled into a ball and screamed. He sobbed and gasped, his throat dry and tight.

Minutes, maybe hours passed of John doing that - and he didn't move until he was scraped red and raw by his rhythmic rocking on the hard carpet.

Finally, he called his last bit of bravery and rose on his knees to peek over the edge of the bed, his eyes still blurred and his heart stabbing shards into his ribs.

"Sh-Sherlock?" 

Calling to him was hopeless, since the stillness of death was lingering. Sherlock was naked and face down on the bed, a pool of crimson collecting beside his once unruly curls.

Still in shock, John stood up with painful feet and moved to the dresser. Upon meeting himself at the mirror, he saw his reflection, but his eyes were lifeless and clouded, Sherlock's body set behind him on the bed like an unbelievable weight.

He didn't believe it as he dressed slowly, sure that soon someone would have to come for him. Someone would have to come for Sherlock, and someone else would need to keep John restrained, because God only knew that in so many minutes, he wouldn't be able to.

Picking his phone from the dresser, John dialed Mycroft.

The older Holmes brother picked up and sounded pleasantly awake in his warm home. "Myc…"

"What is it, John?"

"Sh… He's…"

John thought his maturity and ability to dress himself was noble, but as soon as he had to tell Mycroft, he felt small and unable.

"… Baker street?"

"Yes."

"Lestrade is here. He's coming. Hold on, John."

John hung up and turned slowly, his legs heavy like cement. Every breath hurt as he moved to cover Sherlock with a sheet.

He sat beside him then, Sherlock's brilliant eyes now lifeless and dull. John stroked his head.

His love, his sweet, sweet love. His Sherlock. His fiance. His life…. His life was now anything but, a curious smirk still on his dead lips.

When Lestrade and Mycroft arrived, they had to pull John from the bed and hand him off to Mrs. Hudson.

He barely heard Lestrade's "Jesus Christ," or Mycroft's "Brother…" or even Mrs. Hudson's horrified gasps, because his soundless sobs and shattering heart drowned it out.

 


	5. Johnlock Break-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More angst! John assumes the worst about Sherlock but he is very, very mistaken. Nobody asked for this, but I wrote it on Skype anyway. Trigger Warning: Rape

John stood in the doorway, clenching his fists. He tried to time his ragged breaths to calm himself, but he failed. Sherlock was at the table, his curly head in his slender hands. He looked so downtrodden, so defeated - but he still betrayed him. 

John took a few steps into the kitchen and swallowed his dry throat. "Tell me," he started, "When I was at the clinic..." Sherlock's shoulders trembled, but John was relentless. "How many times did he come over?" 

The detective didn't respond. John knew that if the places were switched, Sherlock would have been gone. He would have deduced everything, every misplaced wrinkle of his jumper, everything - and know exactly when he'd cheated. 

John wondered if Sherlock could hear the pain in his voice. He knew he could. "How many times did you... make love? ... If I can call it that." J

ohn turned his face away, the sight of Sherlock's guilty tears dripped from his sharp nose and onto the kitchen table. 

If it hadn't been for Anderson, Donovan, and Harry, John might have lived his life without knowing of this betrayal.

 Sherlock finally spoke, although his voice was shaky. "You can't... Call it that."

"No, I can't. Because you're supposed to make love to me. With me. Not some bloke named Victor."

"I - I didn't!" 

"Don't lie! They all told me! I can see it in your face! You had him over while I worked, you shagged him senseless, and let me carry on believing we were fine for two weeks! Jesus, Sherlock, at least you could have told me right out! You let me... You let me believe that it was fine." 

"It is fine! It's all fine!" 

John was back at the doorway now. He didn't want to ever come through it again. He'd leave for good, find a girl, settle down. He'd had enough of the madman in his life for the three years he suffered. "It's not all fine. And it won't be ever again. There's nothing to be fine about. Goodbye, Sherlock." 

And he left, galloping down the stairs, leaving Sherlock to cry to himself. 

Of course, John had been his usual stubborn self, little knowing that Sherlock was assaulted by Victor, forced to be with him right as Donovan and Anderson were to stop by - just to get back at John. Sherlock was innocent. 

Soiled, tainted, broken, and scared, but innocent nonetheless. And he had no John to prove that to.

John was rushing out of the flat, salty tears stinging his eyes and threatening to slide down his cheeks. He was angry at Sherlock, so, _so_ angry...

Sherlock was supposed to love him. After two years, two bloody years of being together, Sherlock was supposed to remain faithful. John cursed Sherlock. He cursed his life. He cursed himself. 

Of course Sherlock would cheat, he wasn't good enough, smart enough, quick enough - "John!" 

Lestrade appeared then, panting as he jogged away from a cab. He was flushed, tired, and panicked. 

John had a sinking feeling that he knew what it was about, and frankly, he didn't want to hear about how much he made Sherlock cry at the moment. He knew. His sobs rang in his ears. 

"Lestrade?" 

"John, oh my God, you didn't just - Oh, God, God... No..." J

ohn pushed past him, but the silver haired detective latched onto his arm. 

"I don't want to hear it, okay? I know I've fucked it up. Just please, leave me alone." 

"No, you didn't..." 

John turned and faced Sherlock's oldest friend. He was genuinely scared. John's tender heart sunk further. He was still on the street in front of the building, technically, Sherlock could come running after him, but the sad tint in Lestrade's eyes told him that wasn't so. "Lestrade, just tell me." 

Forcefully, yet albeit, gratefully, Lestrade spat his words out. "He didn't cheat on you!" 

John tugged his arm, which was still in a vice grip. "Yes, he did! Harry, Donovan, and Anderson told me! And he's been acting weird all week... and crying now..." 

Lestrade shook his head slowly. 

"He... didn't?" John said. 

"No. He didn't."

John's legs gave out. He collapsed onto the pavement, pulling Lestrade with him. "But Anderson said he walked in and - " 

"For fuck's sake, you'd believe Anderson first?!" 

"...I checked with Donovan... and when Harry said I didn't want to - " 

Lestrade pulled John's face in his hands and forced him to look at him. John felt strange at the touch, but his mistake was consuming him and the world was already blurring. 

"Listen to me," Lestrade said, "What Anderson and Donovan saw was what Victor wanted them to see. He forced himself on Sherlock after sending them texts from Sherlock's phone about an overdue apology. He made Sherlock seem that he wanted to say it in person, he lured them. By the time they came over, Sherlock was exposed and being..." 

John was horrified. No, John was more than horrified, he was disgusted. He was disgusted in himself for believing Anderson and Donovan and he was more than disgusted with Victor. He assaulted and violated Sherlock, and it was John himself who believed it was Sherlock's fault. "No.."

"Yes, John. Mycroft was away on business for last two weeks, and he didn't have direct contact with either Sherlock or I, but before you came back from your disappearance, he finally got in touch with Sherlock and deduced what had happened. Two weeks ago, John! Two weeks he'd been suffering!" 

"He didn't tell me." 

"Of course not, you were so fucking distant! He didn't cheat on you, he was _raped_!" 

"No. No." John was still on the ground, but it felt like he was falling right through it. 

"John, Sherlock is up there right now, you need to make up."

"No, I can't, I told him..." 

"I don't care what you told him! You love him and he loves you, that should be enough to fix this! Get up. Now. Go. He needs you." 

Lestrade lifted John to his feet and led him to the door. John didn't believe it. He couldn't. How someone so putrid and horrid could take something, someone, so wonderful, so undeniably luminescent.. and darken it...

Lestrade continued to hold John up by the elbows as he pushed them through the door and carried him up the stairs. "It'll be okay, John," he kept saying. "You didn't know. It's okay. He'll be okay." 

John let his head hang, the words doing little to soothe his damaged vow. 

He'd promise to always be there for Sherlock, and he'd left him right as - but Sherlock came into view. He was standing at the window overlooking the street. John couldn't see his face. 

Lestrade pushed him through and leaned in the doorway, stuck in place until they were sappy and ridiculously in love again. 

"Sherlock..." John could barely get the first word out. 

The man slumped against the window frame and John heard another muffled sob. It cut right through him, a razorblade of guilt. He struggled to take a few steps forward. 

"Sherlock - I didn't... I shouldn't have... I wanted to.... .... Sherlock... I'm sor-" But Sherlock had cut off his apology and shocked John to the core with his eyes. They were so heartbroken, so dead - red, puffy, and irritated from crying. He looked shattered. 

Sherlock turned his body toward John anyway and began walking slowly. He'd removed his trademark coat and his purple shirt was crumpled and stained. John had found him at the table and left him there, so he didn't know how long he'd been there for before he returned. 

Upon coming closer, John's beloved met him face-to-face and crumpled into his shoulder. He hugged John so tightly, as if he was afraid he'd never get to again. He wouldn't have either, if John had stormed out of the flat and left him. 

John gripped back, his fingers clawing at Sherlock's shirt as the man shook and sobbed silently into his shoulder. 

Their embrace was so heavy, so powerful, even though John had been away no more than five minutes after potentially dumping Sherlock on false accusations. 

They stayed like that for a good while, until John couldn't feel his hands anymore, and Sherlock's breaths were a mantra in his ear. 

He had a second chance to make it right with him, to care for him, to help him heal. He tried whispering his name, but the soft 'Sh' sound just became that, and John was then whispering his apology in the form of it. "Sh... I'm so sorry. Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I should never have believed them..." 

Sherlock eventually pulled back and looked at him with eyes that shone a little brighter. "John," he said. 

"Sherlock - I can't believe he - are you alright? Are you hurt? Where did he go?" John would kill that bastard, he swore it. 

"I'm fine - well, no, I'm not fine..." Sherlock tried to make light of it, his arms still draped around John's neck. 

John looked up at him and tried to smile, although his taut cheeks reminded him that he was sobbing with the taste of saltwater in the corners of his mouth. "Sherlock... He really did... that?" 

"Yes, John." 

"Oh, my God." 

"John... I didn't tell you because I cou - " 

"You could have, you could have. No, fuck, you're fine. It's not your fault. As long as you're safe. You're safe." 

"...I'm safe..." 

"God, Sherlock." 

They were both still crying, although the tears were silent and streamed down their faces with the highest of nobility. 

"John... Please don't be disgusted by me now..." 

"Never, Sherlock! Oh, God, never, ever!" 

"You think he soiled me, don't you?" "No, Sherlock, you could never be soiled. You can be hurt and disrespected and... God, no, never soiled. You're so... God, you're so much more than that. I'm so sorry..." The thought of Sherlock thinking he was soiled made John cry again, and he buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder this time. He whispered muffled "I love you"'s into his arm, wondering how on earth he could be graced to know such a strong yet misfortunate creature as Sherlock Holmes. 

"I love you. I love you, I love you, and I'll always love you. You're not soiled. You're not disgraced. Never, Sherlock, never. I love you." John said it again. He said it once more, knowing that his love of Sherlock was sometimes borderline obsessive, other times ridiculously dangerous... But he always said "I love you," and never "You're mine," because Sherlock wasn't his to own and, especially now, he never wanted to have Sherlock feel unsafe or unable to consent. So all he could say was "I love you," because he did. He really, really did. 

And Sherlock said it back, into his hair, with a hot breath, because for some reason, out of all of John's stubborn tendencies, his mistakes, his inability to deduce the situation and ask Sherlock outright what the matter was - Sherlock loved him. Treacherously so, but he did. And now was more a time than any when Sherlock would need John's tender touch to help him recover.

 


	6. Ballet!Sherlock and Rugby!John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Classic prompt from Skype friend. Rugby-player John and dancer-Sherlock being horny shits, as per usual.

Sherlock tried to ignore the boy's gaze. He tried, but he failed.

The boy was always there, every day, as he danced. He knew him as one of the girl's brothers, but as time ticked on, he realized she began doing things after practice, which meant he didn't come to walk her home after his own. 

He always had dirt on him and smelled like grass. He always sat in the corner. He always stared at Sherlock with more curiosity and admiration than lecherous intent. He always crossed his legs when Sherlock lifted his high, and he always seemed more interested in Sherlock's bum than his sister's dancing style.

Bending low now, Sherlock peeked around his leg and caught the boy staring at his tight rear. He raised himself up again but the boy's eyes stayed at his bum. Sherlock wondered if he shimmied it, the boy would snap out of it.

He did just that, and the rugby player shook his head and blushed, tightening his legs and looking from Sherlock's face to his hands. 

Smirking, Sherlock lifted his leg onto the bar and stretched it out. He slid his pale hand over the dark material of his tights, exaggerating each curve and valley in his shapely legs. He kept an eye on the boy, who, of course, kept an eye on Sherlock's body.

Days passed like that, where Sherlock exposed his taut muscles and ballet grace until the boy was flush in the face and struggling to maintain eye contact. Neither his instructor nor the girls in his class noticed, seemed ballet didn't come as easy to them, and they actually used the class time to focus. 

Unfortunately for Sherlock's sanity, on one particularly hot day, the boy showed up wearing a thin white tanktop which seemed to be damp. His usual grubby rugby shirt was no more, and his rippling chest and solid arms were exposed. Sherlock felt himself heat and his crotch swell, so he turned back towards the mirror and forced himself to think of his grandma in a bathing suit.

A few days after that, even, the boy was finally approached by his sister.

"John," she said. "Why do you keep coming? I go home with Clara everyday. You don't have to…"

"I like to," he replied, his voice strangely new as well as painfully familiar. 

"Oh! I know what it is… You have a crush on one of the girls, isn't it?"

"Uh, yeah, something like that."

Sherlock scoffed from his position on the bar, "Something like that."

"Sorry?" John said.

Apparently Sherlock had said that out loud. He swallowed and tried to remain calm as he bent backwards at John, "Harry," he said, "It seems your brother has taken a fancy to one of the academy's finest dancers."

"It's Jeanette, isn't it? You know she thinks you're cute."

"What? No, I just - Harry. Shouldn't you be bending in half or something?"

The redhead shrugged and walked away, "Alright, loverboy. See you at home."

"Loverboy." Sherlock scoffed, his calf now inches from his face.

John looked as though he was about to say something rude, but his round face warmed with a smile. "Hey, what's your name?"

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Right. I like your tights, Sherlock Holmes."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Quite the opposite, I truly like them." John teased Sherlock's heartstrings with his smile, and Sherlock would have had a matching grin if Ms. Victoria hadn't called his attention back.

He was sure John could see his reflection blush in the wide mirror, though.

* * *

John hustled through the halls of the recreation center. His practice had run late and he'd missed the time slot before Sherlock's ballet practice ended. He smelled fowl and was covered in mud, but he needed to see Sherlock, he needed to have the newest version of his tight bum in sleek black tights for his nightly fantasy. 

He grimaced, that sounded bad. It wasn't that he would do anything to have Sherlock's dark curls in his fingers as he sucked him off, but it wasn't something he'd refuse if it were offered to him. That, and maybe some hand-holding or picnic dining.

He galloped past the older locker rooms but balked as he heard one of them on. Nobody used the locker rooms next to 221b, they were musty and gross, and the ones beside the football and rugby field were so much nicer.

Naturally, John's curiosity got the best of him and he pushed through the doorway and weaved through the lockers.

Steam was coiling from the behind one of the curtains. John was surprised they still worked, in all honesty.

He wondered who it was on a purely detective level, but what he heard next _really_ intrigued him.

He heard whorish pants and moans mixed with his name. John widened his eyes and swallowed down his instant arousal. 

It seemed as he were dreaming, but if he wasn't, it must have been another John.

His mind immediately sparked to the conclusion that it was the ballet dancer behind the blue curtain, and with each breathless moan and hum, more of that eerily deep voice came through. His assumptions were solidified once he caught sight of black tights and a light blue shirt crumpled on the bench.

John was extremely aroused now, as well as sure it was Sherlock. He didn't want to open the curtain and scare him, but the most recent moan of his name, with his last name attached, made him irrational and he yanked back the curtain.

Sherlock must have been deep in pleasure, because he hadn't even heard John expose him. 

The rugby player's stomach dropped. Sherlock had one long, pale, lean leg up on the wall, stretched in all its glorious curves.

He was facing the wall, his wonderful bum and muscular back facing John. A slender arm reached 'round his back and came to a spot between his arsecheeks.

As John watched, he noticed how Sherlock's fingers disappeared into him as he breathed out John's name.

He must have made an audible groan, because Sherlock yelped and lifted his leg from the wall, spinning to face his peeking John.

They locked eyes for a moment, the sight of Sherlock's curled bangs matted to his face with water doing little for John's incredibly hard erection.

Sherlock looked from John's face to his muddy shoes and spoke. "You're all muddy."

"I need a shower," he replied, his voice dry and quivering.

Smirking, Sherlock reached out a hand. "Join me, then."

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. The Baker's Son and the Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John works in a bakery and some ridiculously good-looking stranger comes in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most trope thing I've ever written, and I'm not ashamed.
> 
> For my queen ❤️

Another lazy day at the bakery ticked on as John leaned on his elbows, flicking his nose mindlessly. Days were usually slow here, some old ladies perusing the whole wheat here and there, little kids with their mothers poking the glass in front of the pastries, even the occasional college student picking up a scone before class. There were customers, certainly, but not enough to keep John busy and too many to run the bakery out of business.

So today was just like the others, Mrs. Welsh picking up a bag of day-old loaves in the morning and leaving John to sneak buns in the afternoon, shop empty, the golden Fall sun filtering in through the lace curtains. The shop worker huffed and pushed himself off the counter, pulling a green flannel along with him to wipe the windows. Again.

He turned and rolled his neck. The brown apron that was tied around it always rubbed his nape wrong, and he reached his one free hand up to touch it as the other wiped the vase in the window.

John laughed to himself sadly, he almost wished some beautiful person would come through the door, but he knew that wouldn't happen.

As if some overused trope, the soft jingle of the bell above the door sounded, and on cue, John turned on his heel. The sight he was met with made his soft breath catch in his throat and his cheeks heat. His fingers curled around the fabric in his hands and he found himself stuck to the spot. The door closed innocently, jingling the red bell again.

The young man walking towards John was tall and sleek, with unruly teal eyes and dark curls wildly winding around his sharp cheekbones. The pale complexion in his face tinted pink when his gaze met John's, and his slender neck swelled as he swallowed. His poised, Cupid's bow lips parting as he spoke, a deep, grumbling voice rolling through them.

"Hello," he said.

John, still knocked flat by the man's apparent beauty, struggled to respond as he blessed his life and tried not to question why the stranger only graced his life on a lazy Tuesday evening. "What can I get you?"

The man took his rather large, interesting hands from his pockets and scratched his prominent nose. "Uh, two loaves of sourdough, please," he dropped his eyes to John's chest, where his name tag with the faded edges sat proudly. "John W."

The bakery worker nodded solemnly, an attempt at hiding his apparent attraction, and turned to the shelf behind him. He spoke over his shoulder as he adjusted his collar and tried to ignore the rather salacious thoughts that creeped into his mind. He slid the loaves into the oven to warm them, hoping that the stranger would still be tantalizingly sexy when he turned back around. "Yeah, that's my name... You from around here?"

"Yes...?"

"Oh, I didn't mean to - it's just that - " John fumbled over his words and bit his lips as he waited for the little orange light on the oven to click.

"I've never been shopping in this neighborhood, if that's what you mean."

"Yeah, right. Something like that." John used a wooden paddle to pull the stranger's loaves out before shutting the oven rather tentatively. He didn't want to seem rough around such a fragile case. He'd hoped he'd be seeing more of the man, anyway, and he didn't want to scare him off with how badly he treated his father's store.

Luckily, he'd be able to gaze upon the stranger as soon as he turned back and packaged the bread in a white paper bag. John flipped his eyes up and watched as the sharp-nosed customer licked his teeth and reached behind him for his wallet, his tight dress shirt straining at the buttons. "I should've gotten a name for the order," John mumbled as he moved to the register.

"Why, so you can call it when you get frazzled by the dozens of customers in here?" He laughed.

It was a nice sound.

"No, well, I - " John was sure he looked stupid by now.

"Or did you just want my name, John W.?"

The baker's son smiled. If he'd have known better, he would have sworn that the stranger had already given him a nickname. And, by the man's sassy smirk, he figured he was correct. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't - either way you'll have to give it to me at some point."

"Will I?"

"Yes."

The man smiled and nodded towards John's hands. "How much?"

"About a tenner," John said mindlessly, snapping out of his flirty mindset and falling straight into the man's trap.

He handed over the bill and took the bread softly, almost soft enough to brush John's knuckles with his fingers. "Keep the change, John W. I'll be back."

John grinned and felt the apples of his cheeks heat. "Alright," he said, stars in his eyes.

The man disappeared out the door, leaving the red bell to jingle and John to sigh dreamily.

* * *

As the man had promised, he came back. Every few days, actually. John found himself checking the door, wiping the flour on his apron as the day turned into evening, and laughing to himself about how quickly he was falling for him when he thought nobody was around.

They'd talk, he and the man, about mindless things. Those startling eyes would blink at him as John fetched the usual two loaves of sourdough (how he went through so much bread in so little time, John didn't know), but somehow, somehow, he never caught the stranger's name. The man would trick him, tease him, or clearly ignore him when he asked.

Weeks carried on like that, and John just stopped asking. He stopped asking the order or giving the price. He stopped asking why he'd never seen the man around. It was just pleasantries between them - flirting, talking, blushing. John had urged himself to ask him out so many times, but he always ended up rubbing his sore neck right when he wanted to, his nerves stifling his voice.

One time, however, there were too many days without seeing him. John began to worry, but wouldn't tell anyone to what extent. Of course, he mentioned the stranger to his sister and his friends, even when they always rolled their eyes and told him to just ask the bloke out. But now, he knew his panic was ridiculous, overly dramatic, even. They wouldn't want to hear about the pit in his stomach or his heated nerves when someone came in the bakery that wasn't him. The man didn't come for a whole week. John was tired. He was tired and sad and grumpy and mad, mad at himself for not asking his name or his number. Mad at himself for jumping through holes and biting his tongue. He would've tried to contact him, if he had more information... And more guts.

He only knew the man liked hot sourdough bread, as well as a few tidbits about him: how he liked mystery novels and how he had a dog named Redbeard.

John wished there was more, though. He wished he knew how he looked in the morning or how he liked to be touched at night.

One lazy afternoon, however, a little old lady and her husband came into the bakery talking about something different. Apparently, there was a new flower shop that opened just down the street. The woman, touching the brim of her purple hat, had said that it was due time that someone made use of the empty corner store, and that the man who decided to work there seemed nice enough.

John didn't pay attention until the woman mentioned the man's eyes. "Like tide pools, I tell you - full of so many different colors! Blues, greens, even a bit of yellow." Her husband huffed in jealousy, but John was too hopeful to laugh at it.

His heart stopped, as did his restocking, and he thought of who's eyes were so much like that. It was a far fetched idea, certainly, but it wouldn't hurt if he tried...

* * *

On John's day off he moseyed down the street and ducked into the corner where the old woman had said it might be. Surely enough, there was a red and white striped canopy overlooking a window of flowers. Lilies, roses, and tulips smiled at John as he galloped down the cement stairwell and pushed through the wooden door, a higher-pitched jingle than his own shop's sounding above him.

A curly head of dark hair was behind the counter, fixing a vase of petunias. John's heart was thrashing wildly in his chest, but he forced himself to speak just the same. "You stopped coming," he said to the man's back.

"I did." He didn't turn, but the voice was unforgettable.

"Why?" John was rather angry and albeit, bit stupid with how much he'd missed him.

"I was setting up here, idiot." The man turned his face so his profile was sharp and beautiful against the blue walls.

"Oh. So you work here now?"

"Obviously."

John took a moment to smell the floral scent and admire the flowers. He wondered if the man had begun working here to be closer to him, or if he had met him because he opened the shop on the same street. Either way, John's face was flushing and he was happy to have found his stranger. "Well," he started, "I missed you." The man turned around and moved toward the counter, shiny silver name tag glistening on his chest. John beamed, "...Sherlock H."


	8. Blood Streak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Muttering under a grimace, John furrowed his brows but made no attempt to back away from Sherlock. They were standing close but on completely different pages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [Vanetti](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lereya/pseuds/Vanetti)

For the smartest man in the world, Sherlock Holmes really was an idiot. 

John was furious, raging at the man before him, his hands flying up at his sides.

Sherlock's hands were at his face, pulling down his prominent nose with his left and dabbing a wet cot over a horizontal bloody gash on the bridge of it with his right. He checked the spot on the cloth occasionally, a pink blotch spreading as the gash slowly refilled with blood. His calm, tired eyes glazed over as he went back to dabbing, watching John as he screamed on. He seemed blankly amused at it, rather than taking what John said to heart.

"Not even two months back, and you're bloody dragging us out on homicide chases!" John continued, standing stiffly in the center of the living room as Sherlock crossed his legs from his spot in his chair.

"You wanted to go out on cases again," he responded blandly, checking the cloth. He put it to his mouth and licked at it briefly like a curious puppy. He made a face and returned it to his fresh cut. 

John put his hands on his hips like a scolding father. He would have been one, wouldn't he, if Mary had actually been pregnant… and faithful. "Oh, no, don't do that. Don't make this my fault. I told you not to run between the alleys."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He didn't like to tease John these days, mostly because he'd only regard John in the highest, most complimentary fashion, but as he wordlessly moved back in after Mary, things slowly resumed their usual comfortable zone, and Sherlock found himself teasing him once more. Things were still different, of course. John had left his wife for Sherlock, in one way or another. 

They never spoke about it. They didn't really speak about anything, actually. Nothing of merit. Just pleasant talk, talk of cases, talk of what's on telly. It was too much to mention what had happened. 

"Please, John, there was no way I wouldn't chase after him. We can't hide from every - "

John interrupted. "Yes, we can! Let's take cases where everyone's already dead, where we figure out why bunnies can glow in the dark."

"Been there, done that."

"Stop it. I'm telling you that it wouldn't hurt to just take it easy for a bit."

"Oh?" Sherlock uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. " _Captain_ John Watson wants to take it easy? Weren't you just beating up druggies a few months ago?"

"Yes, and one of them was you!"

"John - "

"Look you can't just run along ahead without me."

The change of subject, touched with abrupt honesty, surprised both of them. Sherlock pursed his lips and waited. John grumbled and straightened himself up, stiffening his muscles. He didn't say anything, just avoided Sherlock's eyes. 

The detective took this opportunity to watch John fidget. Sherlock looked at the smudge of dirt on John's forehead from when they ducked behind a dumpster just before he ran ahead to the tight crinkle of his mouth when he bit his lip. 

It almost seemed like something else was going to happen, but the silence continued on, tense as ever. Obviously, John soon ruined it. He picked up where he'd left off, repeating something he'd said earlier, shouting at Sherlock again. They continued like that, an endless rotation of varying, "You wanted to go on a case," and "Why can't it be a normal case?!"

After a minute and a half of unintelligible bickering, Sherlock finally leapt from his position in the chair and loomed over John, bloodsoaked cloth balled in his fingers. 

"Why am I so stupid for running ahead? Was it not a chase?!"

"It was dangerous!" John's voice wavered as his blue eyes looked up and into Sherlock's face.

"That's the point." 

John grumbled again. Sherlock didn't understand. "But this was too close. Too dangerous."

"John, everything we do is 'too dangerous.' It's my life, it's yours, we _like_ it. What's so different about this case? I don't understand."

"Of course you don't."

"Is it about the nature of the case? I tried to pick an interesting…"

"No."

"Homicide, male, multiple killings… Seemed to be right up your alley…"

The room was still as John's anger came in waves, surging through his hard breath. Sherlock, on the other hand, was puzzled, looking away from John and backtracking.

He thought he'd done it properly. That this is what John wanted.

Muttering under a grimace, John furrowed his brows but made no attempt to back away from Sherlock. They were standing close but on completely different pages. 

"…up my alley… stupid git…"

"Sorry?" Sherlock snapped back, hoping for any shred of a clue as to why John was so upset. This was hardly the most dangerous case they'd had. The Chinese circus, running after Moriarty, and eventually exposing Mary were much higher on the list of thrills than this one.

"It scraped your nose."

"John, you're jumping all over the place, please - " 

"The bullet! You _literally_ came centimeters from death."

"John?"

"You don't understand!"

"I don't."

"You could have been killed!" 

Sherlock was quite confused now. Sherlock and John had both touched death, how could it possibly be cause for worry now, of all times… "So?"

"So you can't fucking leave me again!"

And there it was.

The silence hung around them like damp earth, but the crackle of John's swearing, so fiercely that he spat, electrified the air.

Sherlock didn't say another, "I don't understand," nor did he roll his eyes. This one complaint was different. This was a direct call at Sherlock's various attempts at leaving.

When he'd faked his death, when Mary shot him, when he stepped on the plane… So many times he'd hoped to leave John, rid John of the burden of him, make him better off… But it seemed John didn't want that. Not again, if at all.

So the detective just stared on, his breath stuck in his throat as the gash on the bridge of his nose pooled blood and dripped down and into the crease of his left nostril. He wouldn't dare wipe it away, lest it break the moment.

John's eyes followed it down Sherlock's nose and past it, to his lips.

Then, completely unlike him and definitely breaching the territory, John reached up with both hands and cupped Sherlock's face.

He flinched for a moment, but the warm compression of John's palms on his hands calmed him. He would have closed his eyes to sink into it if he wasn't transfixed on the softness of John's eyes.

This angry little doctor, as well as the love of Sherlock's life, then swiped the droplet of blood from the crease of Sherlock's nose and across his cheek with the pad of his thumb.

Sherlock gasped lightly as John's hands remained gently on his face, his quick eyes darting from the red streak he'd made to his mouth. And, with even more quickness, John then raised himself on his toes and pressed up, colliding his soft lips with Sherlock's in a tender, surprising kiss.

Sherlock's heart flipped and he barely had time to close his eyes, but John wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, and only pressed in harder, his lips damp and soft and as wonderful as Sherlock had hoped they'd be.

The man with this blood on his face responded in kind, leaning in with a small swivel of his head.

John pulled back a second later, looking at Sherlock squarely in the pink face before dropping his own blushing cheeks into Sherlock's shoulder, sighing in a near-sob, "You can't _fucking_ leave me."

And silently, with the ghost of kiss on his lips and a worn out John Watson on his chest, Sherlock swore he never would. Never.

 


	9. Slow & Heavy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They laughed at near-death experiences and kissed in the moments they technically should not have been living.

Two men who’d just been up close and personal to death’s pale, round face, wild, black eyes gleaming with a silent promise, probably would have been a bit mad to laugh about it not two minutes after. Moriarty had called off his snipers, slipped into the night, and left John and Sherlock holding their breath. Upon letting out a pained sigh simultaneously, they burst into laughter. Inappropriate chuckling and utterly poor timing. 

John had nearly been blown to bits, Sherlock had almost ensured it, and their villain swore he’d be back. They didn’t win, they didn’t survive - they just got lucky.

And, apparently, this was hilarious.

Sherlock watched as John pulled the wire out of his collar with a breathy laugh caught in his smile. “I shouldn’t be laughing,” he said. “We could have died.” He pocketed the microphone for evidence and puffed his chest out.

“We would have,” Sherlock rolled back, voice like gravel, gun heavy and warm in his hand as he slipped it into his waistband. 

They looked at each other then, cerulean light of the pool dancing in their eyes. With no sign of red lazers, no chime of Moriarty’s sing-song voice, or any ticking bombs, the men silently agreed to leave, and quickly.

Walking down the dark, empty hallways, silence settled in. John breathed deeply beside Sherlock, who kept his eyes sharp for any moving shadows.

Exiting the school, bouncing down the front steps briskly, they waited for Sherlock to hail a cab. Upon its arrival, they climbed in wordlessly and immediately set their eyes on opposite windows.

“221b…” Sherlock began.

“Baker street,” John finished. 

The cab took them home smoothly. With only some former-glory 80′s band playing through the static radio, John and Sherlock rode quietly. 

London passed by in navy swatches and golden droplets of streetlight.

They didn’t plan for Moriarty’s next move, double-check for wires or bugs, or even chat lightly about who was next to get the milk. All heavy, telling tension that should have been held in the few seconds after Moriarty’s disappearance slipped in here. No laughter, no inappropriate flirting, and definitely no heroism. It was tight and hot and uncomfortable, like they couldn’t shed their skin of the situation fast enough.

Of course, they endured it, breath steaming up the windows at which their noses nearly touched. They unbuckled when they arrived in unison. Sherlock paid the cabbie and thanked him. They turned away with an unrealistic weight upon them both. Sherlock followed John up the steps to 221b on heavy feet.

John unlocked the door, held it open for Sherlock, and closed it with the knocker. His left had was clenched into a fist as he walked a few steps into the foyer and stood poised in place.

Everything that had happened enveloped them all at once. Neither one looked at the other for a moment, taking their own private moments to recount the night.

John, who’d been faced with death countless times, found himself more concerned if Sherlock had been flirting with Moriarty than if he’d really shot the bomb. He knew that he would have, and he knew they’d have died together without a second thought.

Sherlock, who’d always seen every case as a mission, thought little of Moriarty as he stood, hands in his pockets. He thought more of John, how he acknowledged John as an incredible, honorable, extraordinary man. Now, however, something was different. He’d been brave, as he always was, but he knew. Together, they knew. To live and fight, or to die and bring it all to an end. 

John didn’t meet his eyes now, as they stood in the hallway. Mrs Hudson must have been sleeping or playing online poker, because even as she always knew when her boys were home, she didn’t appear now. 

They could have, and probably should have, climbed the stairs, but they didn’t. They stood standing in the foyer, John facing Sherlock, eyes struggling to keep a hold on any one pattern on the wall before him. 

Sherlock would have said something, too, if John hadn’t sensed him starting and blew out a small breath from his nose that said  _Don’t. There’s nothing to say._

But he was wrong. There were so many things to say. Things like how they were feeling about all the pressure they’d been under, if they wanted to just lie low for a while, if John was feeling ill about being kidnapped, or if Sherlock wanted to go  back out and chase Moriarty down.

Nobody said anything, though. Not a single word.

Instead, John finally managed to get a hold on Sherlock’s eyes. That said enough for the both of them. Steady and calming, his steel-blue gaze reminded Sherlock that they were going to face this, this whatever, together. The world spun mad around then, on and on, but John was a force to keep them rooted.

His eyes seemed to say,  _You’re mad, Sherlock, but you’re brilliant, and I’d have died with you if it meant we could get that bastard. I hope you know that means I’m in this for the long run._

Sherlock held the gaze back. Everything in this moment was slow and powerful and important. There might not have been any sound at all, but Sherlock wouldn’t have known. _I know,_  he tried to say back.  _I know. Thank you. I needed you with me tonight._

John took a big breath. Sherlock felt it in his chest.

 _You needed me?_ John asked.

_I always need you._

None of this was aloud, and neither were sure if the other was really getting the message, but something had crossed between them, and before either could send anything back, Sherlock was closing in on John, looming and tall and elegant. 

John backed against the wall with a soft thump and leaned his head back. He looked at Sherlock from heavily lidded eyes, lips resting together tenderly, still. 

Sherlock moved in on him, cocking his head and coming within inches of John’s nose. He felt the tip of it brush his own before he saw, in the blurriness of his own closing eyes, John lightly, so, so lightly, tip his face inwards. 

Sherlock kissed him. It didn’t make any sense, really, but he did it anyway.

For them both, everything was slow and quiet and heavy. It was the most natural, sensual thing that could have happened, and it did. Sherlock pressed his lips in, soft and plump and tender, and John to leaned into it. The kiss deepened slowly, like gravity pressing them down, together, until John’s hands found Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock’s elbows rested against the wall at either side of his head. 

He swiveled to angle and open his mouth against John’s, who took the opportunity to follow with his tongue.

It was a dance, a slow, unbelievable dance. Sherlock moved his legs in between John’s, who gladly accepted him and pulled him flush against his body.

They laughed at near-death experiences and kissed in the moments they technically should not have been living.

Tongues light and delicate, lips soft as rose petals, they pressed into a world that both had been waiting for, a swirling, ridiculous, deathly world. They’d face it together, be it kissing or fighting. Both gave them a similar rush, although here and now, they liked it slow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sloooow kisses... wrote this for lesley bc she asked for it. i wanted it heavy and sensual. nice


	10. Laundry Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swallowing his loneliness away, Sherlock opened the round face of the washer and began loading his perfect white shirts in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAO this is based off my laundry struggles at school

It seemed simple enough, you know, choose a setting, place the little soap packet in, and put in some quarters. Sherlock regarded the laminated post above the five washers with a tilt of his head. The directions were all there, complete with a little sticker of a rubber duck atop a washing machine. 

Only a week into school, Sherlock had yet to come here, but he knew he had to eventually. He carried his basket down to the elevator and down to the floor below. He found the room marked “LAUNDRY ROOM” and peeked inside. Nobody was in there, and he was grateful for that. A few machines were on, and two were left empty, so he quickly strode to one and set about doing the business.

He was lost in the thought before he noticed the smell of other people’s dirty clothes. It wasn’t overpowering, but for him and his acute sense of smell, it was there. Sweat and grime. Grass stains. Old semen. 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and tried not to think about whatever gung-ho style romp had occurred for these smells to come to exist, or even if he was just mixing up multiple people’s clothes. He thought about it for a little while, just tossing around the idea, as his hands moved to a setting.

He was going to use hot water. His mother had taught him not to, not when doing colors and whites, anyway, but he wasn’t doing colors. He wanted it hot, and he’d even checked the tags on his pretty dress shirts to make sure it was fine. He pressed the button, and then again, since it stuck the first time, and loaded his coins in.

Everything was quiet, save for the ching-ching of his quarters, and Sherlock let his mind wander again.

He was really quite lonely, even more so now that he stood alone in the laundry room. Perhaps if he’d had some pleasant person to talk with, it would have been better. Nothing spectacular, just nice. Maybe a smart, disinterested girl with an affinity for books. Sherlock might like to meet one of those, and he knew that college was just the place for it. 

Thinking of her small body sat atop a washer, wearing thick-rimmed glasses and sneer behind her hard-cover book at every man who passed, he wondered if she’d even existed. He didn’t like women, actually, but the thought of having one like that was definitely nice. He could use a friend.

Swallowing his loneliness away, Sherlock opened the round face of the washer and began loading his perfect white shirts in. 

The door of the laundry room opened then, and a figure shuffled in. Disinterested, Sherlock refused to look up. Apparently, they refused to look down, as they’d bumped into him and nearly tripped.

It was a flurry of clothes and hands and “I’m sorry! Excuse me!” before the figure, most-likely beet-red in the face, disappeared into the other section of the room, loading up their laundry elsewhere.

Sherlock shook his head at the foolishness, most of it in regards to himself. 

He packed the rest of his shirts, which had landed in a pile on the floor, into the machine and started it. He would have waited around, not wanting anyone to steal his silken beauties, but now that that clumsy person was here, he didn’t want to stick around.

So he left, minding his business and working on odorless experiments in his room until the expected time was up.

When he’d returned to the laundry room, the mysterious klutz from earlier was gone. As they should have been, no reason to stay. Two girls were there instead, holding up their lacy delicacies and talking about their adventures in them.

Sherlock tried not to listen, especially to the giggles and “Oh, look at this one here,” as he moved past them and to his machine.

Little red timer set at zero, Sherlock opened his washer and reached inside quickly. He felt the slightly damp, smooth material of his shirt in his fingers and pulled it up. 

What was revealed to him, though, instead of his lovely, dinner-party appropriate white dress shirt, was a hideous pink thing.

“What the!” Sherlock said, peering into the washer. 

A mass of pink shirts and pants stared back at him mockingly, as if to say, “Told you you shouldn’t have left us here.”

Sticking another handful in and pulling them out, Sherlock’s rage deepened as every single piece of once white clothing was now a light pink. 

Embarrassed, angry, and quite aware of the giggles from the girls behind him, he rammed handfuls of his spoiled shirts into his laundry basket and, too mortified to even dry them, turned to storm out of the place.

Once in the hallway, Sherlock glanced around for any students milling about. When he found none, he set his basket down and raked through, searching desperately for the red straggler that must have caused this mess.

Hidden in the middle of the bunch, Sherlock found a pair of red, elastic pants. Men’s, obviously, but a bit more excessive than Sherlock would think any man would wear. They were small and tight and snappy, and, holding them up to his face without a care in the world, Sherlock peered into the waistband.

There, in faded blue ink, it said JW.

Sherlock scoffed.  _Thank you, mysterious JW, for ruining my lovely shirts!_

He threw the pants back into his basket and stormed back up to his dorm, knowing full well what his next move had to be.

He had to track down JW. They lived in this building, for that he was sure, and even more sure was he that the culprit must have been that clumsy nutter who’d bumped into him. Those crazy pants must have escaped in the confusion, and Sherlock had thrown them in, hidden under the guise of his white shirt.

It was, in all aspects, a mystery. And Sherlock was quite the little detective, even for the lithe age of eighteen. 

He talked to the residential advisor of his floor, then to that of the floor below, faking that he needed to relay some information to JW about an assignment. Disbelieving at first, but opening up once Sherlock leaned forward and tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear, the RA told him that his friend lived in room 406. Sherlock thanked her and told her he’d be around, “Just a floor above,” if she needed him.

Disgusted with himself but happy for the acquired information, Sherlock rushed to confront room JW from 406, hoping that the blasted shit was in. They must have been, as they’d just put laundry in.

Sherlock arrived there quickly and knocked furiously. He pulled the damp red pants from his pocket, and uncurling them in his fist, he breathed in as the door opened.

He let his eyes close in smugness. “Is this the residence of anyone by the name of JW?”

“Er, my roommate, I guess…” The boy said.

Sherlock huffed and waited for JW to appear at the door.

Eyes open now, Sherlock glanced down at the pants and watched his own arm jut them out in front of him. “These, I presume, are yours?”

“Jesus, yeah. How did you - “

Looking straight into the chest of his culprit now, Sherlock snarled. “They turned my bloody batch pink!” He threw them in the boy’s face and waited.

Once the pants fell away, Sherlock let his eyes travel up to his face.

God, what a face. Handsome and gorgeous and handsome and confused and handsome, the mysterious JW chuckled. “Sorry…”

Sherlock would have said, “This is not a laughing matter!” or even “Yes, you should be sorry!” but he didn’t, since his voice was caught in his throat, along with his breath.

“I’m John, by the way. You’ll need that if I’m to pay the charges for your ruined clothes.”

“I doubt you can. They’re first-line designer pieces. Quite pricey.”

“If they’re so nice,” the pair of beautiful pink lips said, a flick of tongue wetting them, “What’re you doing letting my pants in with the bunch?”

“You should have not let your pants even near my bunch!” Sherlock squeaked, angry, but still so intrigued and even, he admitted to himself, a bit aroused.

It was new and weird and Sherlock didn’t know how to replace it fully with anger.

John just laughed again. Hand coming up behind his neck, red pants slinging over his shoulder. He laughed again. “I’m not going to ask you to think about what you just said. It’s cute to watch you flail about.”

Sherlock went as pink as his shirts. “What?”


	11. Maths, Maths, Maths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The library suddenly felt very small and very large all at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for vitruvianwatson.  
> ps, uni!lock is like, my weakness. i'm sure this won't be the last installment of the uni!lock ficlets

John was tossing a rugby ball, warm and solid in his hands, when his watch beeped. 4:30 in the afternoon, the little red numbers warned him.

“Shit,” he swore, throwing the ball to one of the two boys across from him. “I have to go.”

His friends glanced between the three of them, one of them holding out the upturned ball in a silent question. 

“I’ll catch you later.” John said, eyes darting between the face of his watch and their confused faces. He picked up his bag from the grass and slung it over one strong shoulder.

“What is it, Watson? You have a date you didn’t tell us about?” 

“No, it’s er, a school thing.”

“You don’t have class on Thursdays,” one of them said, tossing the ball back to the other mindlessly.

“Yeah.”

“D’you have a tutor or something?” The other said, ball landing with a soft tap in his pink palms.

John grimaced. He didn’t want to admit to having a tutor, as most people knew him to be smart and confident, and having additional help outside of uni classes was just  _not on_. “Just maths, just bloody maths...”

Dean huffed a laugh as Seamus said, “Maths!? Star rugby player John Watson can’t handle a bit of maths!?”

“Okay, thank you, I’m leaving now.” John spat, turning away and walking off the campus lawn, pulling the strap of his satchel snug to his shoulder angrily.

“Let’s just hope the tutor’s fit as!” Seamus shouted. 

John left them to toss the rugby ball between them, laughing to themselves over John’s misfortune. He hoped they dropped the ball and lost their record.

He bit his bottom lip as he crossed the campus. He loved his school, and he loved to learn, but the stigma of having a tutor wore heavy on his reputation. He supposed he didn’t have an option, as his counsellor urged him to dominate his maths courses in order to remain in rugby and, later on, become a better doctor.

So John just grumbled as he went, hoping that Dean and Seamus were right, that the tutor might be attractive.

Moving down the pathways between buildings on his way to the library, John let his eyes wander. He looked at all the students passing by, various types of genres of people. There were girls in pajamas and flip flops, yawning and disinterested, and girls in black platform boots with green hair and piercings. A few wore tight little skirts and heels, and John let himself look grossly at their round bums. Boys, too, ranged from slack and tired to poised and primped. John also looked at their bums, stretching beneath tight trousers, as he had come to terms with his sexuality. Uni had been great for that, really, especially his first year. Lots of cheeky handjobs and snogging in the dorms.

John shook the memories of pretty blokes gasping under his touch and cast his eyes at the buildings. He passed by humanities, science, arts, business, and the student resources as he went, feet padding strong across the cement pathways and lightly over the patchwork campus lawns. 

By the time he’d made it to the double library doors, he’d seen exactly four really attractive people, one girl and three boys. Alas, like the rest, none of them had made the sharp spike in his heart that he was hoping to find. He moved through the doors and into the building, chest a bit tight from the brisk walk.

Indeed, John was hopelessly romantic. All of his endeavors thus far had left him sated from a good orgasm, but pining for real intimacy. He wanted to meet  _the one_. And, as he was learning, he found that he preferred that to be a bloke. It was a strange thing, discovering his own preference, as well as the fact that he only ever felt romantic about men, rather than women. But he supposed it didn’t matter too much, as long as the person under his hands at the end of the day was attractive and enthusiastic. 

He moved through the library now, looking out the clear glass windows and onto his campus. So many students, so many opportunities, and none of them had brought him what he’d wanted. Maybe he was too picky. Maybe there wasn’t anyone here for him. He sighed and retrieved his phone from his pocket as he began climbing the stairs.

His counsellor had given him the number of his tutor, but not the name, which John found strange. She’d told him to text them and set up a time and table to meet at. John had, a few days before, hesitantly messaging them with his name and information. They’d responded, “Thursday. 4:45. 3rd floor. Table 15. Don’t be late. - SH” and never texted him again to confirm as the date drew nearer.

John panted a bit as he stepped off the last flight of stairs and onto the third floor. The library looked as it usually did, students sitting around at tables, alone or in groups, on their computers or scribbling notes. He caught a few glances of their screens as he wove through the bookshelves. Most of them were doing assignments, some of them were writing, and a few were watching movies. If John had had a laptop, which he didn’t, he’d probably spend more time in here, updating a blog or something. Instead, his parents bought him good, expensive rugby cleats and a few posh balls to practice with. They’d wanted him to stay active, and apparently, having a laptop would be a hindrance to that.

It turned out, university had been molding itself around the internet more quickly than Mr and Mrs Watson had assumed, and John was left without the means for many of his assignments. He figured it out, though. He always did.

Except in maths. Maths was awful. 

Moving towards the clearing of tables now, he slid into a chair at empty table fifteen and looked around. He waited a few seconds before huffing to himself, _‘Don’t be late_ ,’  _they said_.  _They’re not even here yet._

John pulled his notebook from his satchel and rolled his neck. He laid out his pens and pencils alongside it and waited a few minutes. After a few more, he angrily doodled in the corner of a blank page. The doodle spread down half the margin, pausing only when John looked up to smile at the girl at table sixteen. When he looked back down to continue his geometric patterns, there was a brush and a shuffle of a presence as his late tutor slid into the spot adjacent.

Without looking up, doodling furiously, John said, “You told me not to be late, and yet here you are.”

A low, rolling grumble, akin to something a tiger might make, vibrated from the across the table and sent shivers in John’s bones. “Apologies, John. I was caught up.”

He looked up then at the sound of his name. Unfair that he shouldn’t know the bloke’s name, and yet he knew his...

John’s breath caught when he looked across the table. A ridiculously attractive boy, with high cheekbones and a slender jaw, shuffled through a textbook. With pale skin contrasting dark, wild curls, John felt heat prickling in his cheeks at noting his tutor’s pink, plump lips. John swallowed upon noting his long neck, creamy and dotted with a few dark moles. The tutor hummed, which caused his lip to twitch, as well as John’s groin. He looked up then, right at John, and every last thread of sanity John clung to fell away with the flash of eyes. Bright and intelligent, a mix of turquoise galaxies laced with black lashes, the tutor’s eyes shot sparks into John’s veins. John would have been embarrassed about such a physical reaction, but if anyone was worthy, it was this one here, right across from him.

“All right,” he growled, lips parting delicately as his nimble fingers slid down the lucky, lucky textbook page. “Mrs Hudson said you needed help with z-score? It’s simple really, it’s the statistical measurement of the...”

The handsome boy droned on, and while John was sure he could spend an eternity listening to that voice, none of the words stuck with him. It was all notes and melodies and rhythms in John’s heart. He stared on, awestruck and entranced by the ridiculous, ethereal young man.

“John.”

John snapped out of his trance at the sound of his name again, licking his lips, unconsciously watching the perfect pair across table fifteen. “Hm?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“Sorry... I just...”

“Yes, statistics is quite boring, I agree. But I’m being paid by the lesson so if we could hurry along...”

“What’s your name?” John asked then, hands warm and damp atop his notebook. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and he tried not to think of it tracing a wet stripe down the hollow of the boy’s neck.

The library suddenly felt very small and very large all at once. 

“Sherlock,” he said, slight pink flush creeping across his cheeks. “Now. Statistics.”

“Right,” John replied, eyes struggling to release hold of Sherlock. He could only glance down at his book and notes a few times a second as Sherlock went on about data sets and standard deviations. 

John really, really,  _really_  did not want to jinx himself in saying that this one, this Sherlock, was the one he’d been looking for. He really did  _not_  want to say that, in case it proved untrue.

He said it anyway, silently to himself, as Sherlock’s spidery fingers pointed at graphs and charts, chilling timbre of a voice droning on about maths.

* * *

Sherlock continued to tutor John once a week, every Thursday, for as long as John took his maths class. In the first few lessons, John couldn’t focus for one second. He was still blown away by Sherlock and, in all honesty, would rather stare at him than count standard deviations. Either Sherlock dismissed this or didn’t realize it, because he just regarded John’s lack of attention to something like his upbringing, which he laid out for John in complete accuracy at the end of their first lesson. It was incredible, how he knew it all, and John had asked him, eyes wide, if Mrs Hudson had told him.

“No, I simply saw.” Sherlock said, corner of his plump lips twitching up. 

“Fantastic,” John breathed.

Apparently, Sherlock was unaccustomed to hearing such praise, and he went a bit pink before stuttering out another convoluted deduction.

As the lessons continued, John fell harder, which wasn’t beneficial to his overall sanity. He couldn’t get those bloody eyes and dark curls out of his head.

A few weeks in, however, he found it easier to be around Sherlock. He was still hot and bothered in his presence, every time, but he was more familiar now. He could tell what he meant by the twitches in his face, and when he came upon a long word problem with a huff, John knew he was exasperated with the textbook’s “lack of creativity” in regards to plot. John would just laugh, tell him that a collection of fruits with data ranging from 400 to 1800 pieces was definitely ridiculous, and lick his lips, staring at him with obvious want.

And with this familiarity, John found it easier to pay attention to the actual lessons based on Sherlock’s personal preferences of the material. John would look at histograms and dot plots and know which Sherlock found unhelpful and which he preferred. It made it easy to remember their functions, linking Sherlock with it.

John used his attraction to Sherlock to get by in maths, which was probably not the intended purpose of the tutoring sessions, but he didn’t care. His attraction wasn’t subsiding in the slightest, only growing, and he looked forward to every Thursday. And, as each week passed, John found himself looking for Sherlock everywhere else on campus.

They didn’t share any classes, but as John found, they shared buildings. They’d pass by in the science building between classes and glance at each other. Every time, it had heat coiling in his stomach and sparks shooting through his veins. Sometimes he’d see him milling about the doors of the second dorms building, and John begged himself not to look out his dorm window and inquire which across the way was Sherlock’s.

 It was easy to say that John longed for something more, outside of the tutoring sessions, but he knew that wouldn’t be the case, no matter if Sherlock wasn’t straight. Which, by the disgruntled noises he’d make at boys and girls flirting and giggling at the tables in the library, John didn’t think he was. He might not have been anything, interested in anyone.

John understood that. Well, not really, but he’d try to. And even if Sherlock was interested in people, maybe even men, there was no chance incredible Sherlock could be interesting in boring John. But then, if by some miracle, he really was, there was nothing they could do under the guise of “professional” tutoring.

So John was left to pine. Show up to the lessons, stare at Sherlock until he could differ between right and left skewed graphs, and leave the lesson, longing for more. 

Unbeknownst to him, Sherlock felt exactly the same way.

The moment he’d walked up to the table, John’s handsome face and thick, fit body had him shuddering with an attraction he didn’t know he had. A bit surprised by it, he tried his best to remain calm through the interaction. He never held John’s gaze longer than he had to, and only addressed him in the most professional manner. However, when John looked down to calculate data, Sherlock would stare at him, at the golden tint of his shaggy hair and the pink tip of his tongue as it peeked from between his lips. He tried desperately not to think of that tongue flicking and lapping over his certain sensitive patches of skin.

Sherlock was surprised by his own attraction. He knew he liked men, and often, he’d stay up in his dorm while his roommate went out, palming himself through his pajamas with one hand, the other clutching a military magazine. That was all fine, and he understood how to get rid of natural urges. But he’d never met any actual bloke that caused the same reaction. The ridiculous, primal need to wrap his legs around their waists or ride them ‘til dawn broke, had never come. Now it had, and it was John.

It was very strange, just foreign to Sherlock as sample and population data were to John. He supposed they were both learning something every lesson, maths and deep, romantic and sexual pining. So, naturally, after the lessons, Sherlock was left to just wallow in his own attraction, rush back to his dorm and fidget under the covers, working up a sweat, ‘til he fell asleep, sated and dreaming of rugby boys with blue eyes.

About a month and a half into lessons, which had become the highlight of both boys’ uni lives, John was nearing his first test date.

They sat across each other, Sherlock holding flashcards of formulas up as John described their functions.

“That’s the sum, right? Capital sigma.”

“And lowercase sigma?”

“Standard deviation,” John repeated mechanically. 

Sherlock raised a brow behind the pink card. 

John licked his lips, “Oh.  _Population_  standard deviation.”

“And sample? What’s the symbol for that.”

“S.”

“Good.” Sherlock put the cards down and rubbed a finger along the edge of his book. “That’s basically all Mr Matthews will be looking for on the exam. The rest is plugging into the equations. I think you’ll be fine.”

John smiled at Sherlock from across table fifteen, a large, welcoming smile that traveled to his crinkling eyes. “Good,” he repeated.

Sherlock then found himself staring at John, who happened to be staring back. It was a moment of unspoken longing, but within the few seconds they gazed, that something unsaid just barely peeped. Perhaps it wasn’t as hidden as they originally thought.

With a blush creeping up the front of his neck and to his cheeks, Sherlock looked away. “Right. Good. Well, you seem to be fine for today. You can go home early.”

“Sorry?”

“We’ve finished early today. Get some rest.”

“Early?”

Sherlock looked back at John, who’s dopey expression had flutters of affection teasing his tender heart. “Yes. Early. Now, go away.”

Something passed across John’s eyes, something that looked a lot like an interest. Sherlock felt his breath catch as John moved to lean in, rather than get up and leave. “So we have extra time.”

“Obviously.”

“Would you want to…”

“John, speak up, you’re mum-”

“Would you maybe like to go out? Like, not… academically?”

Sherlock’s heart flipped, stomach dropping. The pink blush that tickled his cheeks flared into a burning red, hot and tight. Sherlock looked on at John, who’s own face had flushed pink. He stared at Sherlock for a moment, before looking away.

“Never mind. Sorry. Student, teacher thing… Dumb. It’s dumb.”

John moved to collect his notebooks and pencils, turning his head so far to the left that Sherlock could see tremors pass over the column of his neck in a wistful sigh.

“John.”

“No, it’s okay, I shouldn’t have asked -”

Sherlock tightened his legs, urging himself to sit up straighter. “Yes. Yes, I want to.”

John paused and looked over the table at him. His blue eyes were so tender and full of hope that Sherlock thought his own heart might crumple from the weight of it. “You do?”

“Yes. I would like that very much.”

“You…” John started, “You know I mean… like a date? Where two people go out and have fun…”

“I know what a date is.”

“Right, sorry. But… That’s what I’m suggesting… because… I don’t know, maybe, you might know this, I sort of like you. A lot. You know,  _that_ way.”

“Hm.” Sherlock buzzed with electricity, so much he found he didn’t know what to say.

“Just ‘hm?’ What does that mean?” John was lopsidedly smiling now, a bit more confident that Sherlock had said yes, but still confused as to his true feelings.

“I feel the same. I mean, I like you. Too. Since the start.”

John’s eyes widened and he let his mouth fall open before shutting it softly and leaning back coolly. He sucked and licked his lips. “Well. That’s good. That’s good.”

“Good.” Sherlock said, pressing his own lips together as his gaze fell on John’s.

“Good.” John repeated.

It took them a while, after just staring at each other, to finally get up and leave the library. When they did, John led him to a little café in the middle of the campus and bought them drinks. They sat on the grass and drank them, mostly staring at each other, until John asked what exactly Sherlock meant by ‘Since the start.’

Sherlock told him, in detail, leaving no room for further question,‘til John was beaming and blushing and leaning over to kiss his soft, chocolate mocha lips.


	12. Reach Out and Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The color of the fireplace casts upon it warmly, leaving the room glowing with a faint pink-orange hue.

A flicker of glowing orange mixes with dancing shadows in the corners of Watson’s eyes, wise and loving as they admire Holmes. The doctor sits, adjacent, unwound, untucked. The hairs on his lips twitch in a small smile as he brings the crystal patterned glass to his mouth. Lightly sipping amber drink from it, he hums, content. Holmes thinks he looks so beautiful with his waistcoats open, jacket jettisoned on the wooden rack in the foyer. He’s handsome as ever with his slicked hair falling down his brow from strong, determined fingers pulling silver-blond strands loose. Holmes has never seen anything, from the stars to the earth, as magnificent as his Watson.

Holmes reclines in his own chair, black leather against the lovely cream of his attire. He, too, is untucked and free, one loose curl unslicked from his smooth style and teasing at the tips of his strong, quizzical brow. One large hand holds a carved wooden pipe to his lips, streaks of red mahogany catching the flame’s color. He closes his soft lips around the bit, inhaling smoke deep into his lungs as similar silver clouds rise out of the flat’s chimney. He holds the smoke, warm in his chest, and closes his eyes, sinking deeper into his chair and exhaling a hazy puff with a low grumble. He can hear Watson chuckle at his obvious ease from across the way, licking the last dabs of whiskey off his reddened lips. Holmes knows how Watson’s eyes go when he watches him, and they match it now. It’s a funny look, one that he’ll never tire of, not after all their days expire.

It’s quiet in their sitting room, save for the crackling fire and the sips of pipe and whiskey. Curls of smoke rise above the mantelpiece and hang in a low mist. The color of the fireplace casts upon it warmly, leaving the room glowing with a faint pink-orange hue. 

They often sit like this, the detective and his doctor, after a case, after a chase. It’s their private moment, their time alone, slow and calm and soft.

Holmes casts his eyes on Watson after a steady moment of silence. Watson looks back at him, fingers tapping against the glass delicately. He’s the only one who sees the Great Sherlock Holmes like this, mellowed and undressed, smoking heavily and lounging. The only one who knows his true happiness.

“John,” he says then, as if to remind him.

Watson turns his face towards the fire, column of his neck exposed by his untucked collar. There’s a peek of clavicle between two white halves. He sighs deeply, closing his eyes as it turns to a grumble. “God,” he breathes. “How  _wasted_  I am when you say my name.”

Holmes smiles, a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, elegant fingers pulling the equally elegant wooden pipe from his lips only to say it again, rolling off his tongue, teasing. “John.”

Watson then makes a sound that he reserves for them, deep in the dark when the city sleeps. It’s a sound Sherlock can’t often elicit, due their world’s watchful eyes, but when he does, he stores it away like a golden trinket meant only for him, only for them. It comes now, in the quiet of their flat, trailing along the smoky firelight.

His doctor opens his eyes to watch the flames, chest rising with a heavy breath. “...Sherlock.”

Then, in one smooth movement, Holmes crosses the space between their chairs and presses between Watson’s spread knees, kneeling before him. “John,” he says again. Watson looks down at him, at his vulnerable, pleading face, and glances to the one hand holding his pipe. The other touches the arm of his chair, mere inches from his thigh.

Holmes looks as if he wants to crawl into John, or have John crawl into him, and Watson’s chest is tight from wanting the same. Holmes presses up towards Watson’s lips, but moves to dust a breath over the shell of his ear.

“The curtains,” Watson says, hands abandoning the whiskey to find Holmes’ shoulders instead.

“Closed,” Holmes breathes into his neck. It’s a smoky breath, deep husks of smoke forgotten in Holmes’ lungs heating a damp spot on Watson’s neck.

“Truly?” Watson grips the bone and flesh beneath his fingers fiercely. It grounds him from the heavenly sensation coursing through his every nerve, Holmes at his jaw, pressing tender kisses beneath it.

“Yes,  _yes._ ” Holmes kisses a trail across Watson’s neck.

“Then touch me.” 

At Watson’s command, Holmes’ pipe falls to the carpet, dark ash spilling against the golden pattern. His hands come to Watson’s thighs, touching him like he dreams to at day. He wishes to reach out and touch, anywhere, everywhere: on the town, at the close of a case. Anything to reassure his Boswell that he loves him just as intimately then as he does now.

Watson presses in as Holmes presses up, and the kiss lands so full and perfect that the haze of the sitting room swirls into their heads. Watson is bristly against Holmes’ smooth lip, but Holmes loves it, just as he loves the way it leaves a raw, red mark at the base of his tailbone.

Perhaps that will happen again tonight, they think, mouths moving in slow and purposeful kisses. Perhaps they’ll have another moment alone, to progress beyond small hand touches at breakfast and fond gazes across a sitting room. 

The curtains are closed, the night is still, and Holmes’ bedroom is, as they well know, just down the hall.


	13. Puppy Sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock looked from the soup to John’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for darcy, who was sick!

CRIMSON-WINTER  
for watsonshoneybee, who is sick and refusing help besides the company of her dog

The last time Sherlock had been sick, really sick, not just hungover or strung out, was when he was nineteen. 

A huge flu epidemic had spread through his university. He usually didn’t see many people, actually, any people, so he resisted it much longer than the party-goers and the students snogging every night in the dorms.

Naturally, this was everyone, so everyone was ill, even the professors. Classes were cancelled, towels shoved under doors to keep the germs contained, and nobody, absolutely nobody dared to drink from the water fountains around campus (even more than usual).

Sherlock, however, was lucky. He stayed in his room, mostly, which he’d somehow swung (through Mycroft, naturally) to live in without a roommate. The floor hated him for this, mostly because it was the biggest room (by two feet) and had the best view. So, to avoid the sickness, Sherlock holed up in his room and resisted the urge to wander down to the library or the labs. 

This worked quite well. For two weeks. But, as we all know, if a virus is determined, it will conquer. And conquer it did, this curly-headed student. He was sick in bed and loathing life just as everyone was getting better and (foolishly) heading back out to parties and jumping each other’s bones.

The illness he’d had when he was nineteen was worse than what he had now, nearly twenty years later. He was limber and healthy and definitely had less (although some) scars back then than he did now. Although, technically speaking, the virus was stronger. He didn’t suffer too much now.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t complain about it. 

He was buried under mountains of sheets and blankets in his bed, foggy and sticky and tired and sweaty and sick as hell when John brought in some soup.

Sherlock rolled his puffy, crusty eyes. “Soup is for colds, John.”

“It’s also for people who are hungry. And you are a people.” He sat at the side of the bed, right beside Sherlock’s knee, and leaned an elbow on Sherlock’s thigh. The soup was swirling with steam and floating with bits of chicken. Sherlock looked from the soup to John’s face. His eyes were warm and lovely and God, Sherlock wished they were his to stare into. But they weren’t. They were some spotty-nosed lady’s. What was her name? Daria? Denise? Something stupid like that.

Sherlock huffed and lolled his aching head to the side. “I am a people,” he said, popping the p’s. 

“Yes. And you’re sick. And you haven’t eaten, not that that’s a surprise for you…” John muttered this last bit before leaning towards the bedside table and resting Mrs Hudson’s bowl (complete with a pattern of little carrots) on the cloth he’d brought. “Well, anyway, you should eat.”

“No, I’m not hungry.”

“Yes you are.”

“I’m not hungry for that.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. I’m not hungry.”

Sherlock shuffled deeper into the cocoon of blankets. His fuzzy eyes looked at the window, at the frost reaching over the glass like creeping, icy hands. London snow drifted down outside, and as it was night, the warm yellow glow of the street lamps illuminated the falling flakes to look like flecks of gold. It was beautiful. And stupid, since he was stuck in here. He’d like to have gone out, stroll around, take John to watch the iceskating couples tumble over foolishly. Something, something nice like that, something for January. Not this.

John patted his bum and Sherlock twitched in surprise. “Come on, don’t be a baby,” the familiar, soothing voice cooed from behind him.

“I am not a baby.”

“You are, you are. You’re acting just like a little baby. You’ve the crusty nose to match.”

“Don’t talk about my crusty nose, don’t talk about it like that,” Sherlock said, slight blush creeping up his already flushed and sweaty cheeks.

“Yeah? Then how should I talk of it? It’s magnificent? It’s amazing? The great Sherlock Holmes’ nose is the best of the century, even as it is currently filled with Extreme Crust?”

“Okay, leave. Just leave.”

John laughed. It was a beautiful sound and damn, if Sherlock wasn’t sick and helpless, he’d watch the crinkle of his eyes and the shake of his chest. Instead, he just listened. John patted his bum again and left his hand there.

“Eat the soup, and I will.”

Sherlock, suddenly very aware of the change in power (although, hadn’t it always been like this? John was in charge of him? John was better than him?) rolled over and sat up. His sides hurt and he felt soggy and heavy. 

Then, as the snow drifted down like fairies, Sherlock let John spoon-feed him soup. It was warm, not hot, and John was very steady and gentle. He was a doctor, after all, so it made sense.

But he was also John, and John was good at everything.

When the bowl was half empty, John smiled at Sherlock in a way that should have been reserved for Delilah (Darcy?) and wiped a dribble of chicken broth from the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. 

“Got your strength back a bit, detective?” John said. 

Sherlock swallowed, throat dry and warm and scratchy and chicken-y. John had never, never been so… Whatever this was. It was different and horribly… Wonderful. Sherlock didn’t deserve such kindness.

He cleared his throat as best he could, although he still squeaked. “A bit.”

“Good. Now, I’m going to go get something. Eat up, and I’ll be back soon.”

Sherlock was left then, by the soft close of the door, to think. He thought about how helplessly in love with John he was (totally) and how he was doomed (entirely) if he, once revived and healthy, couldn’t completely ravage that dopey smile off his face. Fuck if Denee knew, she hadn’t even called John in days. Or… Was that because John was here, feeding Sherlock up? Isn’t that what girlfriends are supposed to do, feed you up?

Sherlock was still pondering this by the time John came back. He had something (wiggling?) under his shirt and ordered Sherlock to get the empty bowl (Which Sherlock had drained) off his lap.

Complying, Sherlock looked through blurry eyes at a dopey smile and mischievous eyes.

Then, as John came closer, he opened his shirt and dropped the wiggling thing onto Sherlock’s lap. It leapt and licked the crust from Sherlock’s eyes and nose (unwise, probably) as John stood on and laughed (God, that sound).

Sherlock stilled the wiggling body with two large hands and pulled it away, blinking through wet eyes at a bulldog with a dripping tongue and drooping cheeks. 

“His name is Gladstone,” John said when it seemed Sherlock had lost his voice. “He’s my assistant. He’s here to make you better.”

Sherlock would have cried if Gladstone, good, good Gladstone, hadn’t wriggled from his hands and bumped him in the chin with his skull, making him laugh and nuzzle his face into the flappy folds of Gladstone’s face. 

“John…” Sherlock began, turning away from the happy pup and looking at his friend, his flatmate, his caregiver, his doctor, his love, his John, utterly smitten and overwhelmed with the fact that John had just given him a dog, of all things.

“No time for talking, Sherlock. You’re a people, remember? A sick people. You have to let the doctor’s assistant care for you now.”

The smile that followed, along with the moment of pure joy, erased any and all snappiness and crustiness from the both of them. John joined Sherlock on the bed and played with the dog, chuckling and patting his round belly.

All memory of Daisy was then lost. Only John and Gladstone remained.


	14. I want to be with you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translated into Russian [here](http://vk.com/topic-91070818_32881495)!

“John… There’s been something I’ve meant to tell you always but never have. I’ve tried, once before, and I backed away, scared. I might as well tell you now. There’s nothing left to lose, it seems. 

First, you must understand how difficult it is for me to relay these feelings to you. You told me once that you find this sort of stuff difficult, and I must confess our similarity in that.

But I’m going to try. I’m going to tell you what I’ve meant to.

You see, I’ve rarely wanted things. Rarely desired, truly  _desired_ things. Outcomes, yes, surely, but not things. Not in a while, anyway. Of course, when I was a boy, I wanted toys and friends and love. I always wanted to learn and explore and question everything. Apparently, this cannot go hand in hand. With my questions, nobody wanted me. They thought me prodding, annoying. They told me to piss off. So I shut my wants away, in more than one aspect.

Wanting the problem to be solved doesn’t solve the problem, solving it does. 

It’s the same with caring. Will caring about a victim bring them back to life? No. Neither will wanting them to, which could be argued to one and the same.

So I went through life trying to keep my wants from affecting my needs. I needed to observe, to calculate. I needed to survive and, at one time or another, die. But I didn’t, somehow, and thus needed to distract myself from living. Drugs, then cases, then drugs again. 

But I’ve come to realize that I’ve wanted something that could have made everything so much easier. It would have kept me relatively happy, a happiness that, as I stand now, surely do not deserve.

That’s you, John Watson.  _You_ have made and continue to make me happy. And I need you because of it. Selfishly, I need you. You know I need you. You’re my right hand man, my friend, my doctor. I need your wisdom and your assistance, as well as your presence in my life as a steady hand, guiding me.

However… As I’ve learned, perhaps too late now…

I also  _want_  you.

I want to be with you.

For so long, I’ve wanted you.

God, it drives me up the wall with how much I’ve wanted you and want you now. I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life - not success, not outcomes, not intelligence. And I could have lived on, just fine, with wanting few things, if any. 

But you happened. You countered every thought I had in regards to myself and flipped my world upside down, if you excuse the cliché. You came to me, what seems like so arbitrarily, and you made me want to live again purely because I want to live in a world where you are.

I’m completely wasted with how much I’ve wanted you, John Watson. I think back now, foolishly, to how you and I would dance, just dance around each other, circling a centre of codependency that neither of us admitted to having. I wanted you then. I may not have understood what it meant, but I still wanted you. I’d wake up in the morning, after you’d convince me to sleep a full night, and think of nothing but seeing you at breakfast. All day, I wanted you beside me. At night, I wanted you with me. Perhaps, and this may be too forward to say, at times I wanted you inside me.

I wanted to be influential to your life and your happiness. I wanted you to want the same from me, I wanted you to want me. If you had, or for some reason, do now, we could have been together. I don’t quite know what that means, seeing as we’ve been together for years now, but I know I want more that what we had before. It’s a strange feeling, one that I haven’t felt in a long time, if ever, and it’s surprising me. I’m surprised at myself for holding such sentiment for thoughts of dates and, God help me, hearing you call me  _love_. I’m surprised at thinking of the day you introduce me to your sister, should I ever meet her, as your boyfriend.

It sounds so immature, I feel, for me to say that, but I know it’s the truth. I know there’s no other way possible, not in this or any other universe, where that is not the truth of the matter. The truth of my heart.

The solution? I’m not sure, since I can’t really admit to it being a problem. It’s a detail, unassuming and unimportant, that we’re not together the way I want us to be.

However, against all better judgement, I still want it. I still want you.

John, I want you so much. Selfishly and stupidly. And I know you would have had a better life if not for me. You wouldn’t have been hurt, you wouldn’t have grieved, you would not have nearly died countless times. If there’s anything you should want from me, it should be for me to leave you forever. But I don’t want to, and I hate that I don’t.

I just want you. I want to be with you. Whatever that means, however… people… go about these things, I don’t know. But I know that I want it.

…

That’s what I had to tell you. I’m sorry, John, that I couldn’t have told you before, and I’m even sorry now for telling you at all. 

But now I have, you’ve heard what I had to say, and there’s no reason for me not to admit to everything. To admit to wanting something against all logic, and perhaps the first time in my life, being in love. Because I am in love with you, and I want you to be in love with me.

…That’s all.”

* * *

Sherlock watched as his red-rimmed eyes blinked two identical tears down his cheeks. Facing the mirror, he smoothed his hands down his trousers and breathed a deep, shuddering breath. His voice had rung out, desperate and lonely, in the empty flat. He looked deep into his own sorry eyes, his own trembling lip, and thought that he truly was so wasted as a man if he could never bring himself to say this, all of this, to the man who, unbeknownst to Sherlock, stood behind him in the doorway.

“Sherlock?” John said.


End file.
